Here Without You (21 page)

Her words are like a physical blow. ‘You think Dori doesn’t trust me?’

‘I didn’t say that. Maybe she’s feeling insecure? No one wants to admit to that. Insecurity makes you feel weak and powerless, and that’s no way to have a healthy relationship. I would know. I was never more miserable.’

‘But she’s not the insecure type. She’s like … the opposite of insecure. It definitely feels like she doesn’t trust me. But why should she? I fucked up, not telling her about River. Just like I didn’t tell you.’

She sighs. ‘You know, I’ve told you before – what happened between you and Brooke, before me, wasn’t my business. I’d have got over the shock of that if it hadn’t been for, you know, the parade of girls right after.’

I shut my eyes. ‘Ugh, Emma …’

‘Never mind that – I’m long past it. Here’s the thing. Graham and I share past stuff – we talk about relevant personal history. But only stuff that impacts on
our
relationship. Neither of us needs to know or confess every single thing that happened before we met. Once you decided to become involved with River – that’s when it was time to tell her. And it sounds like you did. Eventually. Now she’s just got to work it out in her own head. Maybe she needs time. Maybe she doesn’t want to be in a stepmother position at her age. And if that’s the case … you’re going to have to make a choice between her and River.’

I feel like she’s just unloaded a ton of bricks on top of me, and I can barely breathe. Because what she just said – it’s true. It’s so fucking true. Emma would know what it takes
to make that choice – to accept a child who doesn’t belong to you, right in the middle of your relationship, like a ghost of some former love. Goddammit if my initial reflex isn’t to back away from this child – who I don’t know at all – if that’s what it would take to keep Dori.

But what kind of man would that make me?

The PA calls out to let me know I’ll be up in ten minutes. I hold up a hand and nod at him.
Fuck
. How can I shoot a battle scene now when I feel crushed into dust? I need every second of that ten minutes to get my game face back on.

‘I’ve got to go. Thanks, Emma.’

‘I’m sorry, Reid – I know I didn’t make you feel any better –’

‘No,’ I laugh softly, once, ‘but you told me what I needed to hear. I’ll look you guys up when I’m filming in New York.’

Brooke:
CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS.

Me:
Filming. Can’t call. WHAT??

Brooke:
We’re getting a pre-placement visitation. We may get him early. His foster mother had some kind of health thing come up, possible surgery, and they don’t want to bounce him into a new foster home and then to us not long after that.

Me:
Shit. WHEN?

Brooke:
Saturday. Can you be here? They need to see both of us interact with him. Are you doing the online parenting course?

Me:
Yes and yes. I’ll figure something out. Call you later.

Me:
We’re getting a visit with River on Saturday morning, so I can’t come to Berkeley this weekend – I have to fly in and out Friday-Saturday. So sorry.

Me:
Dori, ANSWER me. Please.

Dori:
That’s ok. Shayma and I are helping with a free laundry thing for local homeless people on Saturday anyway. I was going to text you.

Me:
Were you?

Me:
If I call you tonight, will you answer?

Me:
I miss you.

Dori:
I miss you too.

‘Hello.’

I didn’t realize how much I expected to get dumped into her voicemail again until I don’t. How much I missed the sound of her
hello
until I hear her say it.

‘Hey. You answered.’ Right behind the relief is anger. I didn’t expect that, either, and I start my silent therapeutic counting, hoping it will go away quickly. But it doesn’t work that way; the aggravation is filling me as fast as I’m emptying it, like a rainy day in a water-laden rowing boat, and nothing to bail it out with but a tin can.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,’ she says, and I’m literally clamping my jaw shut on the words that want out.

I breathe through my nose and count.
One. Two. Three
. Until I can trust myself to speak. ‘Can we talk, please? Are you still upset?’

‘I’m not upset, Reid. I just don’t think we should rush into anything –’

‘What do you mean by that –
rush into anything
? By
anything
– do you mean
us
? Dori … is this about River?’

‘No … Maybe. It’s not about
him
, specifically. You’ve got a lot going on with the movie, and River, and Brooke –’

‘Dori, the stuff about Brooke and me in the tabloids is all speculation or make-believe – you remember all the fabricated crap they printed when you
fell
on me last summer – that we were having a secret relationship –’

‘We
did
have a secret relationship –’

‘But we weren’t having one
then
.’

‘That’s your argument?’

‘Well.
Yes
. I didn’t say that they don’t guess right sometimes. And do I
need
an argument?’

She doesn’t answer. The silence is thick and solid. I want to reach through this phone and pull her to me.

‘Dori?’

‘You shouldn’t have to explain yourself, Reid. You’re right. I just want you to be free to do what you need to do –’

‘And I’m not? I’m not free to do what I need to do?’

Silence, again. I’m arguing her into corners, because that’s what I do. But if she goes mute on me, what good does it do me to be right? So I retreat to what I know. How I’ve been raised to handle conflict. It’s simple, really. If the communication is making everything worse, then we’ll just stop talking about it.

‘Your spring break is in three weeks, right? We’ll be done filming in Utah by then. I’ll have some long work days at
Universal – but at least we’ll both be in LA. We’ll spend as much time together as possible. Everything will be fine. I promise.’ Without thinking, I ask, ‘Do you trust me?’ As though this question isn’t at the core of everything, and I haven’t just circled back around to it, as unintentional as it was.

‘You’re doing the right thing, Reid, and I’m proud of you for it.’ That’s the second time I’ve heard that sentiment in as many days, but this one feels like the prelude to something unwanted. ‘Spring recess is in three weeks, yes.’

Everything is off. The cadence of her voice isn’t quite right – it’s … flat, stilted, but I can’t see how to fix this. Plus she didn’t answer my question.

‘I’ll … call you, after we meet him?’

For the beat of several seconds, I think she’s not going to answer. Maybe she’s already gone. And then she says, ‘Sure. That would be fine.’

I’ve just got off the phone with Janelle, who is begging me, for the zillionth time and all that is holy, not to turn down
Paper Oceans
. She’s got her first call from the producer and is freaking out that I’ll say no to it. Attempting to explain my reasons does no good. ‘I’m done talking about this until you’ve got an offer on the table,’ I said, thoroughly irked. What I left unsaid, but she managed to hear anyway:
And
then
I’ll turn it down
.

When the phone rings, I assume she’s calling back with additional declarations of the Many Ways in Which I am about to Ruin My Career, but the number on the display is unfamiliar and begins with 512. Local.

My hand shakes as I jab
talk
and say, ‘This is Brooke,’ in the most confident voice I can muster.

‘Miss Cameron – hello, this is Wendy Long. I’m River’s foster mother.’

My fist clenched to calm the shaking, I strive to maintain my feigned composure. I know this woman has voiced concerns to River’s caseworker, his
ad litem
and the judge about me adopting him, though I’m not sure exactly what was said. Norman keeps reminding me that she’s just looking out for his best interests, but I can’t help feeling personally affronted.

I’ve got to do whatever it takes to mask
that
feeling.

‘Yes, Wendy, good evening.’
Shit
. I automatically used her first name – something I do to even the playing field in adversarial confrontations.
Awesome
. I thump myself in the forehead with that clenched fist. ‘Please call me Brooke.’

‘Oh, certainly. Brooke.’ Her drawl is heavy, words fading into soft endings, fusing and linking together, mirroring my mother’s dialect. My brain screams
hick
, and I struggle not to assign that personal bias to it. ‘I thought we should have a chat about River before tomorrow’s visit. Is Mr Alexander going to be accompanying you? Is this a good time to talk?’

‘Yes, it’s fine. Reid will be in town this evening, and I’ll pick him up on my way over in the morning.’

‘Ah. Um. All right. Well, about River. There are a few important things you should know about him before you meet.’

‘Okay.’

‘First off, and most importantly – he doesn’t talk.’

Everything I know about children, I’ve learned in the past few weeks. I may not know much, but I know that most four-year-olds are language-proficient and can supposedly talk your ear off. Kathryn says four is the age of
Why?

‘Kylie was more of a quietly observant child – oddly enough,’ she said, ‘but oh my Lord, Kelley asked
why
a million times a day.
Why do apples come in so many colours? Why did the dog eat that? Why do teeth fall out? Why can’t I jump off the roof into the pool?
The house always seemed unnaturally silent the moment she fell asleep.’

‘What do you mean, exactly?’ I ask Wendy.

‘I mean he doesn’t say words. He doesn’t communicate by speaking.’

‘At all? Ever?’

‘At all. Ever,’ she confirms.

‘Is he … developmentally challenged? From – what happened to him?’ I bite my lip and taste blood, cursing his adoptive mother to hell. Again.

‘I don’t believe so. He understands what’s said to him just fine. And he’ll nod or shake his head, so you get your basic
yes
or
no
responses. And most notably, I’ve heard him verbalize words and short sentences in his sleep a few times – usually during nightmares. So he
can
talk … he just
won’t
. It’s possible that he doesn’t even know he can.’

I frown. ‘What’s been done to address that?’

‘He sees a therapist every week, and his social worker every month.’

‘What the – what good does a
therapist
do if he can’t – or won’t – speak?’

‘He has River draw pictures about his feelings. He’s real good at that. He’s smart, and he’s a good little artist.’ I hear the affection lacing her words and almost lose it. ‘He’s just had a rough time of it.’

‘Yes. He has. I intend to end that, Ms Long. I promise you.’

‘Please, call me Wendy. And … I want to believe you, Ms – er, Brooke. But the stories in the tabloids, about you and Mr Alexander both … Well, I’m worried. I’m sure the gossip is played up and all to sell papers. I mean I seen one last week that said a lady gave birth to a thirty-pound baby, and I’m here to tell you, that’s just not possible.’

‘Well –’

‘Don’t get me wrong – you two are both young and nice-looking, and I don’t mean to pass judgement on you for your lifestyles, whatever they are. It’s not my place to say, you understand, except where River is concerned. He’s not …’ She swallows audibly. ‘He’s not a knick-knack, or a pet. He’s been hurt, and all the pretty clothes and new toys in the world aren’t gonna fix him. He’s like a little flower bud that just won’t open up, and to be perfectly frank – with what he’s seen, I don’t know if he ever will.’

Tears stream down my face and clog my throat. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Wendy. Now let me give you mine.’ My voice is earnest, pleading – such a foreign effort for me. But I need her to believe me. ‘I don’t know anything about raising a child, except how
not
to do it. I know he needs a home. He needs love. And I mean to give him those things.’ I take a shuddering breath. ‘If he never wants to speak, then I’ll just have to get really good at artistic interpretation. He can draw on the damn walls if he needs to.’

Reid slides into the passenger seat of Glenn’s king cab pick-up wearing his sunglasses and a Cal baseball cap, an open
plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, jeans and boat shoes. He looks like a cute college boy, not a Hollywood sex symbol.

‘Brooke Cameron – sporting western boots one day and driving an F-250 the next. Will wonders never cease … What’s next, a ten-gallon hat?’

I flip him off, but he just arches a brow and smirks.

‘Aww, c’mon, I was just funnin’.’ His drawl is all kinds of exaggerated. ‘No need to get hostile.’

I roll my eyes behind my own mirrored sunglasses and pull into traffic as soon as he’s buckled up. ‘There’s more hostility where that came from, Reid Alexander.’ Like slipping into a broken-in pair of boots, I affect the accent he professes to love. ‘You just keep that smart mouth shut or you’ll be meetin’ your son sportin’ a fat lip.’

Luckily, he grins that full-wattage smile and shakes his head without any more flippant commentary. Cocky son-of-a-bitch.

As we leave downtown and head south on I-35, he turns the alt rock station down and asks, ‘You nervous?’

I sigh. ‘Hell, yes. You?’

‘I’ve never felt so panicked about meeting anyone in my entire life.’

Nodding in agreement, I say, ‘That pretty much sums it up.’

‘How long will this visit last?’

‘Wendy said about an hour, unless River makes it clear he’s done, and then it would be best to leave. We don’t want to make him uncomfortable.’

When I tell Reid what I learned from Wendy yesterday
concerning River’s muteness, his periodic nightmares, and some of the details about his adoptive parents, he mutters, ‘Shit,’ and stares out of the passenger window for several minutes.

Two years ago, River’s adoptive father died in a tragic car accident. I vaguely recall him, out of all the prospective adoptive parents Kathryn and I sifted through that summer. Blond, handsome, mid-thirties. Financially sound. What I remember best is something he wrote at the end of his prospective adoptive parent statement:
I hope to be the same loving, wonderful father to my child that my dad was to me
. That sentence was the tipping point for my choice of them over another couple.

His father is deceased, his mother is in her seventies and living in a retirement home.

River’s adoptive mother had been estranged from her parents for years, and they were unwilling to consider caring for River, whom they didn’t regard as a grandchild. Soon after her husband’s death, she’d sunk into an addiction she was unwilling or unable to abandon, even though it meant losing her child – a little boy who had no one else to depend on in the world.

Except for me.

‘What are we supposed to say to a kid who doesn’t talk?’ Reid asks, finally, all hints of his earlier levity gone.

‘He can understand what
we
say. And I brought the
Life Book
– it’s on the seat behind you.’

He turns to snatch the scrapbook we started when he was here earlier in the week, leafing through the pages as I spot the exit up ahead. ‘This is great, Brooke,’ he murmurs.

‘When I was six or so, Kathryn made me a scrapbook of my own. I was jealous of Kylie and Kelley having books of their baby photos and stories about their first few years of life.’

‘Your mom didn’t make you one?’ he asks, and I glance at him like
Really?
‘Guess that’s not much of a surprise.’

Sharla making a scrapbook? Definitely not. ‘Kathryn told me to bring a few photos the next time I came over. Over the next few weeks, I pocketed snapshots of myself that I found in drawers or boxes at home. There weren’t many, even though I was basically an only child. Kathryn bought a handmade journal at some craft fair, stuck glittery pink adhesive letters on the front that spelled out
Brooke’s Book
, and composed the story of me.’

I haven’t thought of that thing in years. I’d forgotten about it until just now.

‘Do you still have it? My mom’s definitely not crafty, but she kept photo albums of my childhood. Up until I was ten, anyway.’

I bite my lip until it goes numb. ‘No. I don’t have it. I made the mistake of taking it home. Sharla found it. She was furious. Ripped the pages out and tore up all the pictures.’

‘Holy shit, Brooke.’ He stares at me. ‘That’s fucked
up
.’

‘Yeah. What a great role model for a mom, huh?’

His hand clenches into a fist on the console between us. ‘Your role model is Kathryn, not Sharla. You know that, right?’

I did know that, somewhere in my head. I’d just never acknowledged it consciously.

‘Yeah. You’re right.’

I turn down a street of analogous one-storey homes, all of them small, each with a big front yard, a driveway on the right-hand side and a cyclone fence. A few pecan trees and crepe myrtles dot the landscape here and there, but this flat stretch of acreage was probably reclaimed farmland when the subdivision was built, so there were no old oaks, like those surrounding Kathryn and Glenn’s place.

‘This is it,’ I whisper, spotting the mailbox house number, which is surrounded by a hand-painted swirling heart motif. My heart thumps so hard that I feel each beat like someone is pounding on my chest from the inside, trying to escape. My hands grow cold, though it’s a beautiful late-winter day, the temperature in Austin within a degree or two of LA.

As we walk up the long, cracked sidewalk, I alternate between examining the chalked pictures and inscriptions decorating the concrete and staring at the quiet little house I recognize from the photo Bethany Shank brought to me not even two months ago. Reid, silent and following me, takes my hand as we reach the front door. He removes his sunglasses and I remove mine, and for a moment we stare at each other. I’ve never seen him look so resolute.

‘Here we go,’ he says, pushing the doorbell. At the echo of chimes inside the house, my heart rate surges. Reid squeezes my hand and says, ‘It’s all good, Brooke. We can do this.’

I can’t let go of him.

And then the door opens, and the middle-aged woman I recognize from the background of my only photo of River
stands there, a faint smile wreathing her face. Her hazel eyes are clear and kind.

‘Brooke and Reid, I presume?’ she says, and we both nod. She pulls her arm gently from behind her, her hand attached to a little boy who appears slowly on the right side of her hip. All I see are dark blue eyes, impossibly huge in his small face. ‘This is River.’

Shayma has nudged me at least ten times this morning – whenever I’m not paying attention and someone asks me a question about operating the washers and dryers, how many tokens are allowed per person, or where the nearest public bathroom is located. After my last space-out, she says, ‘Girl. Where is your head this morning?’

While my roommate is one of the few people with confirmed knowledge about Reid and me, I’ve never been a big fan of sharing too much information with anyone, even trusted friends. I love Aimee and Kayla, but I’m pretty darn sure they’ve told every living soul at UCLA that they’re friends with Reid Alexander’s girlfriend. Shayma knows we’re going out, and that we met when I supervised him (or rather,
tried
to supervise him) at Habitat. She also knows I don’t publicize our relationship, so neither does she – which places her in a select class of friends.

Occasionally, she surprises me with facetious questions like, ‘So … is Reid Alexander a good kisser?’ or ‘I’ll bet
Reid Alexander is
RAWR
in bed, isn’t he?’ I’m glad she hasn’t yet discovered my glowing, telltale ears. The wide-eyed look on my face is indicative enough of my discomfiture, I’m sure.

‘How do you deal with all the making out your boyfriend does in those movies?’ she asks now in her naturally discreet voice (thank goodness), after handing a stack of washer/dryer tokens to a guy who probably hasn’t washed any of his clothes in months. The smell makes my eyes water involuntarily until he shuffles over to a machine with an armful of grubby laundry and the small box of donated detergent I just handed him. I suspect he’ll need more than the one box.

‘And the rumours with ex-girlfriends or not-girlfriends. That alone would drive me batshit crazy. My mawmaw – the self-proclaimed seer? – is a practising Cajun Voodoo Queen. She’d be happy to whip up a little gris-gris for you.’

At the word
voodoo
, I arch a brow. ‘I’m afraid to ask what a
gris-gris
is …’

‘It’s a protection amulet. Sometimes for luck, but usually to ward off evil. I imagine ex-girlfriends qualify. Also, I figured you might not want to follow the still-practised but ethically-murky voodoo superstition to make a man stay faithful.’